Buried on a Motorcycle.

Two nights ago, 8 year-old Everett informed his parents over pesto chicken precisely how he expects his body to be handled upon his death:

“I don’t want to be cremated. Or buried. I want to be standing up or on a motorcycle. With sunglasses.”

Oh-kay….

As I have mentioned before, many of Everett’s dinner table comments are out-of-the-blue. Non sequiturs. The sort of statements that can make a parent’s fingers loose, releasing a suddenly heavy fork to plonk on a plate, loudly. Or make a parent’s head snap upwards while driving, to search for Everett’s face in the rear view mirror. The parent must assess Everett’s facial expression to confirm — savant or psychopath? Obama or Gallagher (the melon-smashing, bald comedian)? Maybe all of the above?

The burial discussion, though, fell perfectly in context. Not because we enjoy stewing about death over pesto chicken. Not because we…